


you can have what's mine (if it helps you stay afloat)

by lanthanesthai



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Urban Fantasy, Fae & Fairies, I'm Sorry Victor Hugo, M/M, Magic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-11
Updated: 2015-02-11
Packaged: 2018-03-11 21:19:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,982
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3333239
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lanthanesthai/pseuds/lanthanesthai
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enjolras’ frown deepens. “I thought I was being nice,” he says, then adds, “I thought I was flirting.”</p><p>Combeferre snorts. “What, by attempting to indoctrinate him into accepting your political ideology?”</p><p>(or the one where everyone is a fairy and all references to artemis fowl have been edited out)</p><p>happy valentines day ♥</p>
            </blockquote>





	you can have what's mine (if it helps you stay afloat)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lurkers](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lurkers/gifts).



> I don't know if this is dub-con or not, like into what category does consensual sex fueled by magical intoxication fall?
> 
> I don't even know what to say except sorry maybe

Bahorel steps out onto the fire escape, beer in hand. R is leaning over the metal railings, cigarette dancing from his lips. The smoke curls into different patterns and shapes against the cityscape.

“I thought you'd quit,” he says, standing next to him and nudging his shoulder, "you went on that whole, ' _fuck humans'_ kick, remember?" The stairs and the railings jolt with the movement, and he can hear loose bolts rattling around. He shakes his head, surprised, as always, that the building R and Jehan live in has yet to be condemned. He knows Grantaire would never move, though, because for all its faults it’s in the heart of Paris and if there’s anything that he loves more than _he who shall not be named,_ it’s this city.

Grantaire shrugs. “Well, extenuating circumstances and all that,” he says. The smoke curls into a flower, and the petals are pulled away and dissipate one by one.

“What happened?” Bahorel asks, though he’s sure he knows. The story is generally the same these days. Grantaire shrugs again and the flower disappears altogether, the energy from the cigarette’s burning tip not enough to sustain manipulation for more than a few minutes.

They stand in silence, a cold wind whistling as it curves around the sides of the building, and the wings on Grantaire's back flutter. He exhales again, not bothering to call it back as the wind carries the smoke into the distance.

“He was handing out information leaflets, shouting about _equality_ and _awareness_ ,” Grantaire says at length, “outside the Musain and I just—” he laughs, a sound caught somewhere between self-depreciation and bitterness. “I did what I always do, I guess. Pissed him off.” Ash falls from the end of the cigarette and into the street below.

“You know,” Bahorel begins, “maybe you’d do a better job of seducing him if you stopped insulting everything he believes in.” One corner of his mouth curls into a smile. “I’m no expert or anything, but maybe if the two of you managed to get past this whole cynicism versus idealism face-off that you seem to have going on, you _might_ —and I know this sounds crazy— _actually get on._ ”

“We'll stop arguing when _Quai de la Tournelle_ stops attracting tourists,” R replies, "or when all the padlocks fall off _la_   _Pont de l'Archevêché_ , or when the _Siene_ is safe to swim in, when unseelie and seelie alike are joined together in—“

Bahorel laughs. “ _Okay_ , okay," he says. I get the idea, but it wouldn’t hurt you to try.”

Grantaire makes a vague humming sound that Bahorel knows he’s supposed to take for agreement, but he knows better. He nudges him again, gratified when Grantaire arches an eyebrow in his direction. (A caustic reaction is better than no reaction at all.)

“I see Feuilly has turned you into a romantic,” R comments, staring back at the river. “I’d be kind of grossed out if I wasn’t so happy for you.” He grins, a wry twist of his mouth that signals when he’s managed to pull himself back from whatever precipice he was dangling over. “If there’s anything you deserve for putting up with all of my shit, it’s someone who’s willing to put up with all _your_ shit.”

Bahorel pretends to be offended. “Hey, I'm a fucking delight,” he says. “Plus there's probably someone out there for you as well." He shrugs, "And even if there isn’t, there’s always the rest of us. _We’ll_ always put up with you, even if he won’t.”

R groans and drops his head onto the railing as the cigarette flickers out. “It’s hopeless anyway,” he sighs, “He's a _sidhe_ and I'm just a lowly _brownie_. A sidhe _noble_ , at that. He's so far out of my league he might as well be from a different species. Oh, _wait_ —"

Bahorel rolls his eyes, opening the fire escape again. “You common types are all so melodramatic,” he says, then shivers. “Besides it’s fucking _freezing_ out here, so can we go inside?”

Grantaire pushes him a little, “Well I’m _perfectly_ warm, unlike you fragile seelies.” He steps back into his apartment (and to be honest there isn’t much difference in temperature). “And don’t think I didn’t notice you _‘sharing positive energy’_ or whatever it is you sentimental losers do. Keep your positive mojo to yourself.”

Bahorel follows him inside and pushes him back. He says grinning, “No-one’s ever complained about my _positive mojo_ before.”

*

Courfeyrac drops his satchel on the couch as Combeferre locks the door to their apartment. Enjolras drops himself onto the couch, frowning as he has been since earlier in the afternoon.

“You know,” Courf says gently, “maybe you should be nicer to him if you want him to like you.”

Enjolras’ frown deepens. “I thought I was being nice,” he says, then adds, “I thought I was _flirting._ ”

Combeferre snorts. “What, by attempting to indoctrinate him into accepting your political ideology?” he asks, leaning against the door frame. “I think you might have to forgive him for not knowing just what you were going for there.”

Enjolras’ frown turns into a full-blown scowl, which Combeferre ignores because Enjolras has been scowling at him since they were seven years old and due to frequent exposure, he's built up a tolerance for it. “It’s not _my_ fault,” he says, “he just keeps _saying_ things and _doing_ things and—”

Courf moves to sit down next to him, resting an arm on his shoulder. “Fae aren’t inanimate objects,” he says firmly, but not unkindly. “And I’m not saying that it’s _all_ your fault, because we know he does it on purpose, but you don’t react very well, you have to admit.”

"Besides," 'Ferre adds, "he can't help it, it's in his genetic makeup.  _You_ on the other hand..." he raises an eyebrow and leaves the rest unsaid.

Enjolras sighs and leans further into Courf, caught in a cuddle-sandwich when ‘Ferre joins them on his other side, rubbing slow circles on his back.

"Come on," Courfeyrac says, "cheer up! Midsummer celebrations start soon and we can head down to one of the fires." He wiggles his eyebrows. "There'll be lots of people from the fifth eve to the fifth morn, and I know how much you love evangelising to the masses."

"It's not _evangelising_ ," Enjolras protests, "it's educating them about issues that are tearing society apart, like the _blatant hierarchical oppression inherent in the fae governing system_ and—"

"Yes, yes," Courf says kissing Enjolras on the cheek. "You're preaching to the choir here."

*

In the end, Enjolras allows himself to be persuaded and he agrees to come along (he draws the line, however, at letting Courfeyrac choose his outfit). The bonfire is deep in the woods, on what he hopes is private property. As much as he is opposed to most fae celebrations (they perpetuate both violence and irresponsibility), this close to Midsummer, even he can feel the veil wearing thin, and it sends something electric through his blood until he can feel the stores of energy humming just under the surface of his skin. _  
_

The sky is bright with stars and the embers of the fire burn towards it, the flame sustained by the energy of those who dance around it. As the festival goes, on the dancing will become more frantic, more vicious, more _beautiful_ and the flame will dance higher and higher and higher until it burns itself out. Combeferre and Courfeyrac send grins in his direction before disappearing into the dancing throng of fae. Not everyone is dancing, though most are. Others drink or talk at the sidelines, some drag their partners away from the blaze, intent clear in their eyes.

Enjolras wanders around the fringes for a few moments, hoping to catch sight of anyone he knows. As it nears morning, the party will fade an fizzle, not to restart until the next night. On the night of the solstice, the festivities will not stop at all.

When he does run into someone he knows, it is not someone he was expecting. They literally collide, neither of them paying much attention, Enjolras especially so. He is caught off guard, but with Grantaire, he is always caught off guard. He admires the faint shimmer of glitter that glows on his skin, red, orange and yellow in the light of the fire. He's wearing eyeliner too, flicks of wings at the corners of his eyes and it—it suits him. Enjolras breathes in, but all he can smell is fire and forest and smoke.

He glances at the ground. "Hi," he says, then winces.

Grantaire looks at him as if he's not quite sure what to make of this recent development, then opens his mouth and asks, “Do you want to dance?. He then looks as surprised as Enjolras that he’s said it at all. He has to shout a little to be heard over the music (pipes, and flutes and harps and it's as violent as it is beautiful) and he knows he should stop and pretend that he said something else so that there’s some chance that they can pretend that it didn't happen, but some part of his brain is telling him that since he’s running towards the cliff-edge, he might as well throw himself off it. (If other commons are half as stupid, half as _reckless_ ,as Grantaire is, it’s no wonder that they have such low life expectancies.) “I mean,” he continues, proving his own point, “I mean if you don’t want to, then that’s fine as well, I just thought that because you’re here and I’m—”

Enjolras’ eyes are alight with something that could be mistaken (so very easily) for hope when he says, “I’d like that. I—I didn’t, I didn’t think you’d want to dance with me.” And from anyone else it would sound like a shitty line from a human high school movie, but from Enjolras it sounds so sincere (everything he does sounds sincere) and it’s at times like this that Grantaire realises just how deep he’s in and he’s so _gone_ over him that even his corny one-liners sound endearing.

Grantaire isn’t quite sure how to interpret the expression on Enjolras’ face, so he doesn’t let himself ruin it by overthinking, and instead drags him out to the middle of the dancefloor, fingers hooked into his belt loops. The crush of bodies pressed them together and this close to the bonfire, all the magic and all the energy that's pouring from it goes straight to his, so fast and so hard that he's dizzy with it.

He recognises that it's not particularly a lot, the power, and for the most part it’s harmless, but Grantaire is unable to focus enough to control it; unable to focus on anything other than Enjolras and the way their hips press together and the give of his waist under Grantaire’s hands as one song blends into another. He's heard Enjolras claim on multiple occasionas that he can’t dance and maybe that’s true, but there’s something to be said about the sway of his hips. There’s just something so _fluid_ about him (about all the sidhe, if Grantaire is being objective) and it’s driving him crazy in the worst way. (He wonders if this is what Midsummer madness feels like.)

They press closer and closer together until their movements match each other in the push and the pull of them. Whatever spell has been cast, Enjolras seems unaffected—whether that was because it is too weak for it to even register, or because he is used to this amount of energy dancing around in in his veins, Grantaire can't tell. With each passing moment, blood rushes southwards with such speed that it makes him dizzy, _dizzier_ , though when he tries to pull away (stopping himself from humping Enjolras’ leg and attempting to salvage what modesty he has left), Enjolras pulls him back, hands sliding from the hollow of his hips to tips of his wings.

Enjolras' hands slide downwards, the faintest of touches and it's _maddening._ His wings twitch, searching for more stimulation but Enjolras' touch is always so _careful_ , so _light_ that if it weren't for the self-satisfied smile on his face, Grantaire would be sure that he's imagining it. His breathing turns shallow and rapid as he grinds himself against Enjolras, who angles himself just so, and _presses_.

“ _Oh, God._ ”

Grantaire gasps, pressing even further against Enjolras’ thigh as orgasm wracks through him—so intense as to almost be painful. Every muscle in his body tightens then goes loose as he falls into Enjolras, shaking a little still at the aftershocks. (His energy goes to the fire, and the fire loops it back). Mind still hazy with cotton-wool softness of afterglow and the euphoria of the energy relay, it takes a while for the horror to seep in.

He's just come on Enjolras’ leg.

_He's just come on Enjolras’ leg._

_He's just come on the leg of one of Oberon's descendants._

“I’m so sorry,” Enjolras says, taking a step back, or as far back as he can in such a small place. If Grantaire wanted to, he could reach out and run his fingers along the lines of Enjolras' arms. He’s still close enough to touch.

“Oh, God,” Grantaire says, hiding his face in his hands, trying to back away, “please don’t say that. This is humiliating enough without you _apologising_ for it—“

Enjolras frowns. How he _knows_ Enjolras is frowning when he can’t see him is another matter entirely, but he can tell nonetheless. “You didn’t do anything wrong,” Enjolras says, and Grantaire feels like crying a little bit (and like laughing a little bit too). “You've been drinking and I know how Midsummer affects common fae, and I’m of higher status and I might be accidentally _compelling_ you right now, or _projecting_ or whatever and I don’t want you to have to feel _obligated_ or anything, and I know that I just took advantage of you and I’m _sorry_ about that, and I’ll apologise to you again in the morning but—”

Grantaire surges forwards and kisses him, hands resting lightly on his shoulders, because really, now he’s just being ridiculous. And Enjolras’ lips are warm and dry and his mouth is hot and wet and when he bites at Grantaire’s lips, R thinks his knees might just give way.

He pulls back just enough to say, “I promise I’ll still want you this much in the morning.” And maybe the glint in Enjolras' eyes isn't just from the bonfire. (And maybe Enjolras isn't as unaffected as he thought.)

Enjolras takes his hand and pulls him away from revelers. "Come home with me," he says, and all Grantaire can do is nod.

*

Enjolras pushes Grantaire through the door the moment that he has it unlocked, kicking it shut behind him. He licks into Grantaire’s mouth, responding to every moan and whimper with a groan of his own. They undress each other as they stumble towards the bedroom, sliding jackets off their shoulders and pulling shirts up over their heads. They’re drawn together like magnets, unable to separate their lips for any longer than is absolutely necessary.

While Enjolras likes the way R’s clothes fit him, the hug of his jeans to his ass, for instance, he can’t help but think that he looks so much better out of them. He looks even better spread out across his bed, wings on either side, flushed red and breathing heavily. He lies on top of him, resting on his forearms, staring at the brightness of Grantaire’s eyes and the bruised pink of his lips.

Grantaire licks at one of Enjolras’ nipples, and Enjolras moans in appreciation, retaliating by stroking one of R’s nipples between his thumb and forefinger. Grantaire arches off the bed and hisses, and Enjolras increases the pressure until the hiss turns into a whimper that gets louder and more drawn out the harder Enjolras twists.

“I knew you’d be this sensitive,” he whispers, sucking the other nipple into his mouth, and though it was less than half an hour ago that Grantaire was spilling onto Enjolras' leg, Enjolras can tell that he's more than ready to go again (especially at the thought of Enjolras _thinking_ about this, _imagining_ this).

Grantaire opens his mouth to say something to that effect, but all he can do is gasp and beg, “ _More._ ” And Enjolras obliges him, with more suction, more pressure, and a scrape of teeth—and he’s coming again, back bowed and muscles stretched taut as it shakes through him, leaving him gasping and trembling, as Enjolras watches on in wonder.

“That was _incredible,_ ” he whispers, and presses open-mouthed kisses to all the parts of Grantaire that he can reach. “I believe that just from me—“ he seems almost lost for words.

Still pliant and a little dazed, Grantaire rolls them over until Enjolras is staring up at him, his cock leaking onto his stomach. Grantaire watches as another drop beads and then falls, half-conscious of the fact that he’s licking his lips.

“Do you want my hands or my mouth?” he asks, and Enjolras opens his mouth to say something along the lines of ‘ _you don’t have to’_ but Grantaire gives him a long look and he says instead,

“Your hands, your mouth _, anything—please_.” And Grantaire wraps a hand around him as he sucks bruises onto Enjolras’ hip bones, as Enjolras bucks into the tight circle of his fist. He changes the pressure and angle and works him slowly until Enjolras is begging and cursing and _pleading_ and _then_ , only then, does he take the head into his mouth, pressing Enjolras’ hips to the bed as he shakes and moans and _comes_ and comes and comes.

“Holy shit,” Enjolras says a few moments later, sleepy and sated. Grantaire can’t help but agree.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm aware of how inaccurate this is to folklore and I made half of it up so it's safe to say that I don't really care.  
> aside from that, any and all corrections are welcomed, I'll send it off to my beta soon
> 
>  
> 
> [tumblr](http://callidiice.tumblr.com/)  
> [(very empty) writing blog](http://dubious-porpoises.tumblr.com/)


End file.
